Age of Demons_In Search of the Amulet

by David Lawrence

  Since the pirate raids began some years earlier, Highland thanes sent emissaries to Norse chieftains. They denied involvement in the piracy or the raids. They had even put a price on the pirate leader’s head, whom they believed to be a former Norse chieftain named Olaf. This Olaf seized trading ships indiscriminately, Norse or non-Norse. Raids on fishing boats took place all year, but raids on villages typically took place during snow season when fogs fell heaviest. Fishing villages dotted the Gulf of Ice coastline, so there was no telling which was next.

  Highland lords became desperate and finally called for help.

  Talarren asked if he could speak to any survivors of pirate attacks but was told that nothing of significance could be gleaned. Thane Landreth had already told them the pirates were fierce Norse fighters with powerful magic users amongst them, expert in sea warfare and raiding, numbering at least one hundred strong and masters of trained yeti.

  “Have you considered your strategy?” Thane Landreth asked in presence of his lords. Talarren shook his head. He suggested they eat breakfast before heading toward Frostibank’s northern mouth.

  “Not another boat,” Elfindi complained, rolling his eyes.

  They ate a hearty breakfast in the thane’s dining hall. Kron clarified their contractual terms. He particularly wanted to know when the gold would change hands.

  “He’s confident,” Perry said when he noticed the contemptuous look on Thane Landreth’s face.

  During breakfast, Razel noticed Perry and Elfindi exchanging cheeky glances. Their eyes lighted upon Caspar, then they darted to his plate. They stifled their giggles like naughty girls. Razel shook her head in disgust. Talarren witnessed the incident, smiling.

  “Will you accompany us to one of the coastal villages close to the river mouth?” Talarren asked his two Highlanders. “Aye,” they said. “We have placed a band of twelve braves armed with bows, glaives and swords and a large pack of trained wardogs at your disposal.” Talarren nodded his acknowledgement. This was welcome news. Two fast moving skiffs had already been prepared for them by Thane Landreth.

  Filled with awe at Talarren’s extraordinary presence in their Lord Thane’s halls, every gathered Highlander finally dared hope their nightmare was coming to an end.

  A mild snow began to fall as Talarren’s party and his fourteen mounted Highlanders departed Landreth Keep for the Gulf of Ice. They sailed on two the skiffs. After a day of uneventful sailing, aided by rowers, both skiffs weighed anchor at Frostibank’s mouth. A chilly vision of endless ocean lay before them as a darkened, late afternoon sky forced them to sleep on board.

  Next morning they disembarked at a final landing port outside the mouth of the river used for vessels heading into and out of the Gulf of Ice. The horses were hardy and bred for the northern cold, but were still draped in mink blankets. Hunter and the wardogs followed in a pack. Talarren stroked his eagle and patted Gladron. “You will be much needed here, Gladron. Your wings are worth more than your weight in gold.” Caspar and Razel overheard. Talarren would share with them any strategy he would undoubtedly formulate. They trusted him with their lives. They would be told in good time. For now, they huddled together with the other riders along the stony path.

  Shortly afterwards snow began falling. Gradually it fell with more insistence, forming a cold, white layer on saddles, woollen caps and horse flanks, covering brown-grey rocks and verdant grasses in wide sheets of white. A fog fell suddenly. Temperatures dropped dramatically. “This type of weather brings nightmares to mothers in fishing villages,” Robert said with a shiver. “Who will be next, they ask themselves?”

  The Ranger nodded. Robert and Bruce were buoyed by his steely gaze. It bore testimony to his ardent commitment to rid the Highlands of these pestilential pirates. His commitment communicated itself to those around him, such was Talarren’s rare gift of natural leadership. He felt he owed this to Ignatius, his “uncle”, and to Aelred. Highlanders looked to him with admiration. This mighty Ranger, stranger though he was, had become one of them. He filled them with confidence, despite the number and ferocity of their enemy.

  They travelled as fast as weather allowed, stopping briefly for victuals before resuming again. Though mid-afternoon, nothing but the dark whiteness of snow and fog filled the void in every direction. Their mounts could barely make out the path.

  Perry threw his eyes in Caspar’s direction, turning to Elfindi and Kron. “Even in this foul weather, that priest hasn’t got a hair out of place.” Perry spied once more the mace that hung from Caspar’s belt. He wondered about this fit, strong-looking cleric in his fifties. He knew Talarren and Caspar had fought together during the Scandorlands campaign against the orcs. They’d also fought together against Mugar armies in Raysal-El-Hin. Yet Caspar looked like an ordinary man. Surely that mace was more for looks. He seemed a healer more than anything else. He shrugged his shoulders. Talarren must know what he’s doing. In any case, he thought to himself, this cleric is one fastidious man of the cloth. And crushing a druidess’s head with his mace wasn’t exactly proof of a warrior, blue and enchanted as it appeared to be.

  At nightfall they arrived at a small fishing village. Heavy snow and fog had not relented, completely covering every surface with a thick layer of icy white which rose half way up their boots. Everything else was pitch black. Razel and Caspar had already used their Light! Spells to get this far. “I know, I know,” Caspar told Talarren. “We could use a druid.”

  Robert dismounted. “They won’t attack tonight, thankfully. We can rest here. The villagers are expecting us.”

  Inclement weather prevented even Talarren from reconnoitring surrounding land and buildings, which he earnestly desired to do, as was his custom. A village matron who’d lost four daughters and a husband to Norse pirates offered them her house. Robert and Bruce guided their twelve braves to a fortified guardhouse with tower nestled up at the back of the village, complete with adjoining stables. A similar construction had been built in most fishing villages as a refuge against marauding pirates.

  Inside matron Eileen’s house, a large fire provided warmth against the biting chill. They gathered around her hearth, rubbing hands together and extending them toward the blaze. She hugged Razel, bemoaning her daughters. “You look like my bonnie wee Monica,” she wailed, gripping Razel tightly. Elfindi imagined what Perry would whisper to him given the chance. Fortunately, he respected the moment.

  “You’ll return ‘em back to me, aye, mister?” she sobbed. “You will, aye, mister?” She didn’t let go of Razel.

  “We will do our best.”

  They settled in for the night, Razel wishing she could cast a Warmth! spell on the room, a spell that somehow had eluded her. She would master it soon, she was determined. She would learn many spells. That night she continued to read from her spellbook and practice by the light of her wand. “How come your wand can light up like that for hours yet when you light up an area it only lasts a short time?” Kron asked.

  “As a rule of thumb, if one needs less mass, volume or intensity, a spell lasts longer,” Razel explained. “More experienced and gifted magic users produce more potent spells, of course.”

  “Well, no offence to you, sweetie, but get practising. We want as much help as possible against those pirates.” Though perhaps interpreted as insensitive, Kron felt the need to say it.

  “Offence taken,” Razel replied. Her face clearly betrayed her hurt.

  “No offence taken, you mean?” Caspar suggested.

  “I meant exactly what I said.” Razel turned her back to Kron and Caspar and continued with her incantation practice, leaving Kron embarrassed and Caspar uneasy. The tension ended conversation. All that could be heard was Razel’s muted incantations and the rapid clicking of their matron’s knitting needle. Elfindi lay on his back close to the fire, his fingers absent-mindedly manipulating his bison bone whistle. Hunter lay by his sleeping master’s side. Perry closed his eyes, reliving glorious battles. It was time, he thought to himself, to wi
eld his blade once more. Battle-lust coursed through his veins. Kron drifted into thoughts about why he was freezing in a Highland coast hovel instead of basking in his warm subterranean cavern under Albatross Mountains. One after another they fell asleep. Matron Eileen, as quietly as she could, placed more logs on a dying fire under Hunter’s watchful eye.

  Dark clouds stuck to the sky like wet clothing. Talarren opened a wooden shutter and peered outside. Snow had fallen relentlessly all night, covering roofs and paths. The village resembled a series of dark-stoned houses topped and tailed with fluffy, dirty, white fur. It was difficult to see anything clearly. A deathly stillness reigned. An eeriness. And a sense of foreboding. Visibility was low, not just because of dawn’s first break, but gloomy clouds stubbornly refused to let through the tentative light. Talarren at first planned to scout around upon Gladron but decided he would go on foot to get a feel for the village from the ground. Once he knew the lay of the land he could devise a defence strategy in the event of attack. Experience taught him even a small band of willing men could overcome greater numbers if working with a superior strategy. This was their only advantage.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Norse Pirates

  HE DONNED A LARGE yak fur coat and cap, and fur-lined boots made of seal skin to which he affixed a pair of snow shoes that were hanging on a hook by the door. These were requested by Robert and Bruce for each party member. Talarren eventually made his way outside, laboriously raising his legs with each step to avoid tripping on snow. Progress was slow and cumbersome. Yetis would match minotaurs in such conditions, he thought ruefully.

  He slowly made his way toward the whoosh! swish! of ocean waves at the docks. Its waters appeared a black-blue green. Darkness covered everything. A handful of fishing boats lay moored across the quay. A wooden pier ten feet wide and forty feet long ran directly out into an obscure watery vastness. Wooden poles rose up every ten feet. Crossbeams ensured their ropes kept fishing vessels secure during rough seas. The peer was deserted.

  A strange, indistinct blur at an unidentified distance caught his eye. He stared, but could not properly identify it. Swirling waters camouflaged this dark blur in sombre, constantly shifting shapes. Instinctively he checked the small lookout tower which Robert told him had been built along with the village watchhouses. Under its low roof hung a large horn. A man sat against a low wooden enclosure with his back to the sea warming himself by a low fire.

  A gnawing fear gripped Talarren’s stomach. He rushed onto the wooden quay. Fishing boats casually bobbed up and down on gentle waves. All was calm as far as the eye could see. Not a boat in sight, but there was this strange blur as if a blob of sleep had blocked part of his vision. He quickly rubbed his eyes, blinking furiously, then checked the wide ocean expanse again. The blur seemed to creep closer, and yet Talarren couldn’t tell whether this amorphous haze appeared in his eyes or actually on the water’s surface. Something was not right. “Oi,” he yelled. “What do you see there?”

  The watchman jumped out of his skin. He scrambled to his feet and witnessed a large armed warrior, a total stranger, standing nearby looking out to sea. “Quickly, man. What do you see? There!” Talarren pointed to where he thought the blur appeared, not half a league away.

  The watchman looked out, scanning the ocean’s dark surface. “Nought, sir,” he said calmly.

  “What do you mean?” Talarren shouted. “There. Directly in front of us. That hazy blur. Can’t you see it?”

  Perhaps this man’s mind was playing tricks on him, the watchman thought. Or perhaps he was not used to the way the ocean’s waves formed shapes. “I see nought at all, my Lord.”

  Then it dawned on the Ranger. He froze, almost in a panic.

  “Sound the alarm!” Talarren roared. “Blow the horn!”

  Nothing but blank stares greeted Talarren. The watchman scanned the vast empty ocean once more, thinking Talarren had lost his mind. Talarren hurled himself forward. He leapt onto the lookout tower. The watchman stood up, alarmed, imagining Talarren may be attacking him. He scooped up his glaive lying beside him and held it unsteadily toward Talarren. Talarren side-stepped the lunging glaive. He grabbed it and effortlessly pinned its wielder to the ground. He leapt to the horn and blew with all his might. The ghastly, stony silence of the seaside village shook with a long, wailing, terrifying cry. Talarren blew a second time before jumping from the raised platform onto the wharf.

  “To arms, man, we’re being attacked. Follow me!” The watchman crawled backwards, thinking this foreigner totally insane.

  Villagers flung open their wooden and seal skin shutters. They rushed outside in a wild panic. Some carried glaives donated by their local thane; others carried bows and arrows. The more timid strapped on snowshoes and clambered away through snow as fast as they could. Those with horses raced to stables carrying nothing but warm clothing, newborns or whatever precious possessions they could carry on their person.

  Talarren returned to matron Eileen’s house. His party were armed and ready. Their white-faced host quivered in fear. Her chattering teeth filled the room.

  “Gather all women and children. Take them to the watch-house,” Talarren shouted as he quickly strapped on Gladron’s saddle.

  “What’s happening?” Perry asked, slinging his bow across his shoulder. Kron finished pulling the straps to his heavy plate armour. He did not relish fighting in this weather. Everyone fastened belts, readied weapons. Razel and Caspar gathered up their staves and pouches full of magical ingredients.

  “Take your horses to the pier. Hurry!” Talarren commanded.

  They raced to their mounts; hearts pounding, minds confused. What on earth was going on, they asked themselves? They had no time to question Talarren. In any case they did not need to. His voice left no doubt a desperate situation was unfolding. Strapping on his armour, Talarren furiously thought about his options. He had no doubt that blur was an illusion cast by a shaman, disguising one or more Norse longships making their way to the village. He slung his bow across his shoulders. He fastened his quiver and shield to Gladron’s side. He strapped on his sword and launched his screeching hippogriff into the heavy seaside air.

  Screams and cries sprang from village streets as men, women and children everywhere kicked up snow in their frantic haste to safety. Many stumbled, too petrified to think rationally, forgetting snow shoes and even furs. Some hid behind wooden beams in ceilings. Other crammed into chimneys. Horses whinnied and bucked under desperate commands of their masters spurring them to speeds not possible in deep snow. Talarren pulled hard on Gladron’s reins. She screeched loudly and turned, veering back over the rooftops to the watchhouse. Armed men poured out its heavy, iron-rimmed oaken door.

  “Robert!” Talarren cried, circling his hippogriff in mid air, “send two men on horseback to gather all women, children and elderly here into this watchhouse. Bring your wardogs and all available horsemen to the pier.”

  Village lanes crawled with desperate fugitives, but other concerns filled Talarren’s mind. If this was indeed an illusion spell, it was performed by a powerful shaman. More powerful than he had anticipated. The blur was almost certainly a pirate advance. He sent Esmay skyward. Gladron landed gracefully on the pier. “Can anyone see that blur four hundred yards out?” Talarren shouted. “Quickly!”

  Robert, Bruce and their ten men stared into dark and swirling - but empty - waters.

  “Talarren,” Robert insisted, his voice laced with irritation, “what’s this about? I see nothing.” His men grumbled, their horses struggling to maintain their positions on the confined quay. They saw nothing either.

  “Elfindi?” cried Talarren. “Can you see anything? Caspar, Dispel Illusion.”

  “He’s mad,” the watchman yelled from his position on the lookout tower. Elfindi scoured the water’s surface, following Talarren’s outstretched arm and pointed finger. “Directly in front of me four hundred yards away?”

  “There’s nothing,” Bruce said in a loud voice. �
��Have you gone mad?”

  “I see a kind of movement out there now that you point it out, but I can’t pin down exactly where it is,” Elfindi said. “Or what it is.”

  “Is this your idea of a drill?” Robert asked loudly from his horse. “I insist you tell us what game you’re playing.”

  Talarren turned again to locate this mysterious blur, his face desperate.

  Caspar made an incantation.

  “Caspar?” Talarren cried.

  “It’s done, Talarren. I still see nothing.”

  “No-one sees anything,” Robert yelled. “Talarren, if you don’t explain what’s happening, we’re returning to the watchhouse once we calm the panic you’ve unleashed in the village.”

  Perry secretly wondered whether years of fighting evil and facing dangers had finally caught up with his Ranger friend. Was he hallucinating? Rangers had excellent vision. But half-elves had better. Nothing was out there. Not even Elfindi saw anything, or Caspar, his reliable priest. His Dispel Illusion! spell revealed nothing.

  An expression of deep concern lined Razel’s face. Much as she wanted to support Talarren, she saw nothing.

  “Something is there!” Talarren roared, his power frightening. “We must act.”

  Hunter barked. Gladron emitted a blood-curdling scream. Highlander horses reared up. Their riders fought to control them.

  Talarren rushed up to Caspar mounted on his horse, thick chain mail covering his body partly hidden by his heavy cloak, helmet fixed tightly onto his head. His glowing mace hung by his side. He clasped his staff in one hand. Razel, Kron, Perry and Elfindi turned from Talarren to Caspar.

  Talarren placed his gauntlet on his old friend’s shoulder. “We tried this once before three years ago. It didn’t work. We must try it again. Will you trust me?” Caspar looked deeply into Talarren’s eyes. In them he saw a man who had proved his worth so many times he could not count them, a man in whose judgment Caspar would happily risk his life.